Arties or Aphrodisiacs

 

The Wolves have back-to-back games following my skating lesson. Dylan is pretty busy, but so am I. I’m working double shifts at the coffeehouse.

The weekend passes with us only texting and talking on the phone. But since he leaves for a couple of road games next week, we make plans to hang out Monday night.

When he calls Monday morning to confirm we’re still on, he says, “Damn, I’ve missed you these past couple of days. This upcoming road trip’s going to suck balls.”

“For sure,” I agree. Sighing, I then add, “What do you want to do tonight?”

Since I’m hoping he picks something mellow, I’m thrilled when he suggests, “Why don’t you come over for that dinner I promised you? I have some things I’d like to talk about with you, anyway.”

“Uh-oh. It’s nothing bad, I hope.”

“No way. It’s all good, I promise.”

He says then that he has to go. There’s a lot of noise in the background so it’s clear he just finished up with practice.

“Talk to you tonight,” I say.

“Yeah, see you then.”

We disconnect, and I take a moment to think things over on where we stand. After making out with him on the ice, I think it’s safe to assume we’re more than friends. And that means tonight is kind of a date.

Because of that, later in the day when I’m debating on what to wear, I choose the cutest dress I own—a tight lacy and white long-sleeved number.

Hope he’s not making anything with a messy sauce.

If he is, with my luck, I’ll get it on the dress.

And then I’ll have to take it off.

Wait. Take it off…

I am definitely wearing it!

I also choose a white silk bra and panty set. If I do end up taking off the dress—for any reason—I’m making sure Dylan gets an eyeful he won’t soon forget.

A couple of hours later, I’m the one getting an eyeful…of Dylan.

He’s rocking dark-wash jeans and a red flannel shirt to the nth degree. With his tousled dark hair and amazing bod, he could pass for a sexy lumberjack. I can get on board with the lumberjack theme. Maybe Dylan will let me climb him like a tree.

“What do you think?” he says, spinning around to face me.

We’re in the middle of him showing me around his nice house, but I only have eyes for him. Or rather, his tight ass, seeing as it looks so good in denim.

“It’s hot,” I murmur.

Oh my God, I sound like Paris Hilton circa 2003.

“Thanks,” he says, looking confused. “I was actually going for a more rustic look in here. But I guess you could call it ‘hot,’ if you want.”

“Uh, uh…”

I need a cover story, and fast. I don’t want him to know I wasn’t really paying attention. I scan around the room we’re in, some kind of a great room, and realize there’s a big stone fireplace with a roaring fire right in front of us.

Gesturing to the flickering flames and crackling logs, I say. “Oh, I just meant it’s hot in here.” I fan myself. “That’s some fireplace you have there.”

He assures me he won’t add any more wood. “It should die down some now,” he says as he moves around some of the logs with a poker.

How do I get myself into these messes? I should fess up and tell him I meant he’s hot. It’s not like he’d be offended. But then I realize it is actually kind of warm in here, which is strange since it wasn’t earlier.

And now that I think of it—what’s that burning smell?

I ask Dylan, and he replies, “I don’t smell anything.”

I inhale deeply. “No, no, there’s definitely something burning. And it’s not the fireplace fire.”

Just as we’re standing here staring at each other, brows furrowed, a smoke alarm goes off.

Dylan says, “Oh, shit.”

And I say, “Ow, that’s so loud.”

I cover my ears when it won’t stop. “What’s causing that?”

He runs off. “Fuck, it’s coming from the kitchen. I think my roast is burning.”

“I told you I smelled something!”

I follow him to the ever increasing ear-splitting sound. With both of us coughing—that’s how bad the smoke has gotten—Dylan runs in and shuts off the oven.

I want to help—no more helpless girl here—so I squint through the smoke for something I can employ to put out the small fire that’s clearly burning in the oven.

And that’s when I spy a giant pitcher of water over on the counter.

Perfect! Firefighter girl to the rescue! If Dylan can be a lumberjack, I can be a firefighter.

Snatching up the pitcher, I rush over to where Dylan’s opening the oven door.

“Get back!” I yell. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Chloe, wait—”

It’s too late. I can’t stop from tossing the contents of the pitcher onto the smoldering, though certainly not in flames, roast.

“Better safe than sorry,” I say with a shrug.

But then there’s a whole new problem. Thanks to my brilliant move, things become smokier than ever in the kitchen.

“That was maybe not the best idea,” Dylan coughs out.

“Yeah, maybe not,” I dejectedly concur.

I’m actually glad there’s so much smoke. I may choke to death, but at least Dylan won’t see how mortified I am.

Running around, he flips on a bunch of fans and opens a window. Meanwhile, I work on composing myself. When the room clears, I glance into the oven and notice something lying atop the burned-to-a-crisp roast—one long-stemmed, though now wilted, red rose.

“Oh, shit.”

The pitcher I grabbed was a vase!

Not only have I completely ruined Dylan’s dinner—the roast may have been salvageable, albeit a tad well-done—but I’ve succeeded in doing so with a flower no doubt meant for me.

Gesturing to the withered and somewhat charred rose, I say, “I’m guessing that was mine?”

“It was,” he confirms.

I start to apologize, but then he says, “Hey, look on the bright side. You used your rose to save us.”

I snort. “Ha, all I did was smoke us out.”

“It’s the thought that counts, Chloe.”

He is just too sweet.

“No, I screwed up everything,” I whisper, feeling like a fool.

“Stop, this is my fault. I didn’t set a timer, nor did I keep an eye on the roast. I think it’s safe to say I’m the one who fucked up dinner.”

I look inside the oven again. Now that the smoke has cleared, I notice what appear to be little lumps of coal.

“What were those?” I ask.

“Twice-baked potatoes,” he replies.

“Aw, roast and potatoes. Sounds like it would’ve been a nice dinner.”

“I should have stuck with scrambled eggs,” Dylan murmurs. “It is my signature dish.”

I echo his earlier words when I say, “It’s the thought that counts, Dylan. Besides, I think we can save this dinner.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am a little, albeit in a good, let’s-roll-with-this kind of way.

“I like my roast well-done,” I say with a smile.

“Well-done is one thing, Chloe. But this thing is charred to a crisp. It’d be like eating beef jerky.”

Always the optimist, I say, “Lumberjacks like beef jerky, I hear.”

Dylan’s brow furrows. “I don’t know what that means, but I think you’re wrong anyway. Cowboys are the beef jerky fans. Haven’t you ever seen The Outlaw Josey Wales?”

“Is that like a spin-off from Riverdale?”

“Huh?”

I try to explain. “The only Josie I’ve ever heard of is Josie and the Pussycats. You know, from the show Riverdale.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chloe. But you had me at the word ‘pussy.’”

“I said ‘pussycats,’ not ‘pussy.”

“Close enough.”

We both lose it then, and I throw a towel at him. “You’re impossible, Dylan.”

He touches my cheek. “What’s impossible is any chance of eating that roast. I think we better just order a pizza.”

“Okay,” I concede, “sounds good to me.”

The pizza is delivered and it’s delicious. We devour New York-style slices topped with pepperoni, tomatoes, and artichoke hearts. The artichokes—or arties, as I like to call them—are my call. Dylan’s never had arties on a pizza.

“So what do you think?” I ask as he’s wolfing down his third slice, one covered in loads of artichoke hearts.

“Fantastic,” he mumbles from around the bite.

“See…” I feel smug as I dab my mouth with a napkin. “I told you arties were good on a pizza.”

He stops and quirks his brow. “Arties?”

“Yes, arties. I didn’t mention it when we ordered, but that’s my nickname for artichoke hearts. Graham and I made it up when we were kids, and it just kind of stuck.”

“Well, then,”—he holds up another slice—“arties for the win. You were right, they make the pizza.”

I love that I can share things like this with Dylan. We can be ourselves when we’re together.

I tell him this, and he says, “I like that too.” A pause, then, “Can I tell you something, Chloe?”

“Sure.”

“You’ve been really good for me. More than you could ever know.”

I have an artie halfway to my mouth, and I freeze.

“How do you mean?” I carefully inquire.

No one has ever told me I’ve been good for them. Well, no one outside of family. Sten always said the exact opposite, that I caused people nothing but grief, especially him.

Dylan gently pries the artie from my grasp, as I’m pretty much squeezing the thing to death.

He raises it to my mouth, and says softly, “Let me feed you, Chloe, and I’ll tell you what I mean when I say that you’ve been good for me.”

I let him feed me, but it’s my soul that he fills when he says he’s going to share his heart with me.

“I was starting to lose it right before I met you,” he says softly. “Things had never gotten that bad for me, and I wasn’t sure why. I figured the trigger was when I went to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave back in December. But now I think it all just caught up to me. I came back and I couldn’t get a handle on my anger. It was even affecting my play on the ice.”

“How so?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Well, I became so short-fused during games that it was crazy. I was losing my temper all the time. And my concentration was for shit. That just wasn’t like me, Chloe. That’s why I joined your brother’s gym. It was Coach’s advice, and I took it. I needed to get myself back on track.”

“I understand that,” I say, nodding. “That’s part of why I started going to Graham’s gym too. It helps, doesn’t it?”

“It does. But for me, my real turnaround came when I met you. You put me back on the right path, Chloe.”

I’m stunned. “How in the world did I do that?”

Taking my hand, he says, “I don’t know if I can explain, but I’ll try. You calm me, even as you excite me. You make me optimistic about the future. That’s something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. You just give me hope, Chloe.”

“Wow,” I marvel. “No one’s ever said things like that to me, Dylan.”

“It’s only the truth.”

Tears fill my eyes, but not from sadness. For the first time in a long time, I feel truly appreciated.

“So what are we to one another?” I quietly ask.

“We’re whatever you want us to be.”

“Are you asking me what I want?”

“Yes.”

“Um, well, I guess I kind of gave it away when I kissed you on the ice, huh?”

I let out a laugh, even as a single tear—one of hope, and disbelief that this man cares for me so much—trails down my cheek.

Dylan brushes it away with his thumb and reminds me, “I kissed you back, remember?”

“You did.”

“Chloe, I think you want more, just like I do. So I want us to try to be a couple. I want you to be my girlfriend. Not just my friend who happens to be a girl. What do you say, sweetheart? Are you up for that?”

I laugh. “Are you kidding? More than you could ever imagine.”

“Good, ’cause all I want to do right now is kiss the heck out of you.”

“Go for it, Dylan.”

Closing the gap between us, his lips crash into mine with urgency but with tenderness too.

Soon I want more.

“Dylan,” I breathe out.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he trails kisses down my neck.

“Take me to bed.”

“Shit.” He looks up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He carries me up to his bedroom, where he undoes the tie on the front of my dress. Lacy material gapes open, then is quickly whisked away.

I’m on the bed with Dylan above me before I know it. I raise my knee and arch way up. One hand finds purchase at the small of my back while the other frees my breasts from the confines of my bra.

I’m touched and squeezed and plied in all the right ways, and soon I am calling out Dylan’s name, begging him for more.

Make me feel good. Take my pain away.

I’m desperate. I need him.

I fumble with the buttons on his shirt until I lose patience and just rip the damn thing open.

We laugh as buttons go flying.

“I never really liked that shirt anyway,” he tells me.

I run a hand over his rock-hard bicep and say, “But it looked so good on you.”

Chuckling, he asks, “Should I put it back on?”

Soaking in his broad shoulders, smooth chest, and the sexy V leading to where I can’t wait to go, I reply, “No fucking way.”

“That’s my girl.”

I expect things to continue frenzied, but they don’t. For the longest time we just make out, our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating as one. Eventually though, clothes are discarded and just when I think I’ll die if he doesn’t do something more soon, he reaches down and touches me where I’m slick and wet.

Finding me like that, he groans, “Fuck, Chloe.”

“See how much I want you?” I purr.

“I want you just as much, trust me.”

I smile up at him. “Let’s just see about that.”

Reaching down between our bodies, I take him in my hand.

“Oh, wow.” He definitely does want me. But what I’m wow-ing about is how long and thick he is.

“I can’t wait to feel this inside me,” I say, squeezing.

That works him up even further, and he rasps, “You better not say things like that or I’m going to take you right now.”

Like that would be a bad thing?

But Dylan has other plans. He shimmies down my body till his head’s between my legs. Then he opens me up with his fingers while he flicks his tongue over my clit.

“Er my God.”

“Good, baby?” he asks as he takes a breath.

“Uh-huh.”

Chuckling, he gets back to pleasing me. And please me he does.

At some point, we re-adjust our bodies so I can please him with my mouth like he’s doing to me.

“God, Chloe, what you’re doing feels so good.”

I fall apart within minutes, but Dylan somehow holds out. While I languor in orgasmic bliss, he lays his body back atop mine. But he doesn’t enter me. He teases instead, sliding his length along my folds and working my clit with the head of his dick.

I soon shatter once more, this orgasm more prolonged than the first. It’s like that one never really ended.

Dylan has me so worked up that he could do anything he wanted to me right now. I am putty in his hands.

But he doesn’t take; he only gives, using his body to please me, all without penetrating. It’s only when I beg and plead that he finally grabs a condom.

“You sure?” he asks as he rips it open with his teeth.

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” I tell him.

He takes me then, and it’s better than amazing.

Afterward, I’m spent and snuggle into Dylan’s arms. “I can’t believe you have to leave early tomorrow morning for your upcoming road games.”

He sighs. “I know. It sucks.”

“Ugh, we’re going to have to get up so early.”

“Not you,” he replies. He kisses the top of my head. “Go ahead and sleep in. I’ll leave a key for you down on the counter. Just lock up when you leave. But again, stay as long as you like.”

“Wow,” I murmur. “I guess we really are official.”

“We are, sweetheart.”

This man is amazing, so sweet, so strong, so good. I truly feel like with him by my side, nothing will ever go wrong again.